Will To Live (Book 1): The Dead Next Door

by Smith, T. W.

  Of course, he could say the same for his hands.

  Time heals.

  When he woke at first light, Will was struck with a terrible sadness. He stared at the motionless ceiling fan.

  I’m really leaving.

  The thought had such finality to it. He wasn’t having second thoughts, but there was a welcome veil of tranquility within the house, so far from the chaos they had been a part of days before. This reprieve would not last, but it seemed a crime not to relish in it a little.

  Never walk by the color purple and not take notice.

  Strange. He hadn’t read the Alice Walker book in decades, why would that phrase pop into his head so readily?

  Brian, is that you? Are you still there?

  He couldn’t recall the last time Brian had spoken to him.

  I’m here, Will. Always. You know that.

  He had pondered that finding Lisa might have silenced Brian forever, deemed him unnecessary, psychologically speaking. Flesh and blood companions trumped internal voices no matter what their age. Yet, here he was still, maybe a little less persistent.

  Why am I so sad?

  You’re mourning, Will. Not just Frank, but your past.

  I can’t stay—that would be suicidal.

  Of course you’re not. That’s the precise reason why you’re mourning. You’re leaving everything—your home, your things, and your past behind. But those things were gone long ago. You’ve been living in a museum, Will. Your life begins now. Everything here is an anchor. You’ve acknowledged it and as a result you’re mourning. It’s natural.

  I don’t want to forget him.

  You won’t…

  They spent the morning loading the camper. Will checked the perimeter first, making sure everything was still clear. He stared out one of the peepholes in the front door, fully expecting to see a horrible face looking back in at him. All he found was an empty street, empty vehicles, Katie’s front door across the way still wide open. He placed the tape back over the hole.

  Lisa was in charge of smaller things that would go up in the cab with them: Maps, paper, pens, sunglasses, CDs…

  She stared at one of the plastic jewel cases. Shirley Bassey.

  “It’s music,” Will said. “Probably a little old for your taste, but something we can listen to on the road. There’s a small CD case for those somewhere in here.”

  She looked at him, perplexed.

  “There is no Internet anymore. We can’t stream. This is all we’ve got.”

  She turned the case over a few times, studying it.

  “Sorry,” he said, returning to his work. “There was no Hanson.”

  This brought an even more confused look to Lisa’s face.

  Will chuckled. “Never mind.”

  The work went quicker than he expected. The camper held a lot, and he organized it as best he could, asking Lisa to be the runner, bringing him select items—dry food, canned food, water, etc.—and saving time by remaining in the hot box himself. By the time they had it completely loaded, there was very little room for the dogs, but he made some makeshift beds with blankets on top of boxes. He had planned to collapse their kennel cages and bring them also, but there was simply no room.

  Lastly, he began emptying what gas containers he could into the camper’s tank, grateful to be out of the stuffiness and in the fresh air. Lisa watched as he emptied the red plastic receptacles one after another, her eyes occasionally darting toward the fence to see if anything had taken notice of their efforts. Nothing had.

  Will had expected the burning decoys to keep the masses away for a while, but was concerned that their preparation of the camper might draw a straggler or two—certainly they were in or near the path of any travelers headed that direction, especially from this side of Lakeland. But if so, the creatures were using the yards and street out front as a thoroughfare. Lisa’s secondary job was perimeter-watchman—especially when Will was inside the camper—and so far, so good.

  They finished by loading up the additional batteries, jumper cables, oil, and other auto supplies into the bays on the outside of the camper. Once done, Will used a key to lock these compartments.

  “I’m pretty sure the battery we’re using is the best of the bunch. I don’t want to start her again until we leave though. No sense risking it.”

  Lisa let her fingers trace the vinyl lettering on the rear of the camper. The font was cursive and it read:

  The Minnie

  Following the name was a color graphic of the famous feline rodent.

  “Do you like Disney?” Will asked.

  She nodded, more fervently than ever before. “We went there once, when I was five.”

  Will imagined what the Magic Kingdom would look like now, Main Street filled with the walking dead, shambling over the hot pavement in the blistering sun and weighty humidity. The Haunted Mansion would certainly live up to its name.

  “Come on. Let’s go back inside.”

  He fixed a meal that afternoon, having put aside a few items while packing the camper. He was careful to choose food that would be easy on their stomachs since they would be traveling the following day: chicken noodle soup, saltines, and pudding. The meal was simple but, to them, felt like fine dining. They sat at the kitchen table with bowls and silverware—something Will had not done at all during Frank’s absence.

  They didn’t speak much. Will allowing Lisa space to get acclimated to the environment and her new companions. The dogs worked wonders, but even Rocko and Lola were not enough to remove her completely from whatever horrors she had experienced. They played cards to pass the time, with occasional snippets of conversation—mostly Will.

  “So, Lisa, how old are you?”

  “Eleven.”

  “When’s your birthday?”

  “October 22nd.”

  “Oh. Frank’s was October 16th. He was my husband, before all this.”

  Nothing.

  “How long have you lived here?”

  Shrug.

  “My friend, James—in Tennessee, where we’re going—has a son. He’s a little younger than you.”

  She looked at him, the tiniest glint of interest in her eyes.

  “His name is Cody.”

  She started to speak but checked herself, letting her gaze fall back down to her cards.

  After a few hands of this, Will announced that he was going to make rounds one last time. Lisa retired to the couch with Rocko and Harry Potter.

  Truth be told, he was a little impatient with her curt responses—but this was an issue of his, not hers. Frank had always been there to point these things out—annoying really, and condescending how he would sometimes address Will slowly, scrutinizing faults in behaviors as if he were a licensed therapist. This had been one of Frank’s traits that Will thought he would never miss and yet he would give anything to hear one of those lectures right now.

  There was a box on the kitchen counter filled with last minute-items. Nothing in it was essential—they really had no room in the camper for anything else—but Will busied himself searching the upstairs rooms, just in case something jumped out at him. The master bedroom was last and—after brief hesitation—he grabbed a framed photograph of he and Frank at Hilton Head. He placed the picture in the box, atop some dishtowels and the duct-taped boombox.

  He went downstairs, through the basement rooms still lit well enough by the windows. He checked the garage, though he had already inventoried it a dozen times, the tools he’d chosen already in the camper. Still he busied himself with the task, sticking his head into the dark weight-room, not bothering with a flashlight, knowing that there was nothing in here other than exercise equipment. He had not used this room in weeks, his recent excursions having taken a toll on his body. In the darkness, he could barely make out the shadow of the dusty treadmill. No, nothing in here.

  He went outside via the door beneath the deck. Despite how mercilessly the world had moved on, Will still considered this patch of green his own. Though neglec
ted, weedy and overgrown—all of the hard work he and Frank had done landscaping undone in a little over three months—he felt comfort knowing that they had created it together, their oasis enshrouded in woods. Only one of the creatures had ever managed to find it—a blind horror stumbled up from the lake as if materialized from a childhood nightmare—and he had killed and buried it here.

  He looked beyond the yard out into the woods and the trail between the hostas. He thought about the boat down there and wondered again whether any underwater dwellers had seen it re-enter the cove. Were they just slow in following, or was it too dark down deep? It had taken a little over a day for the blind one to cross the depths from the island, following what he had presumed to be the flashing signal he’d provided unaware.

  It wasn’t blind out there on the island.

  No, it had seen him on the shore—the fish would have likely taken the eyes during the aquatic journey to his cove. Maybe zombie eyes are a delicacy to large-mouth bass. Maybe there are legions of blind dead roaming the lake’s bottom, not seeing or hearing anything.

  You’re obsessing.

  He crossed the yard to the path between the hostas and stopped at the wood’s threshold. Standing there, still, he listened for a long time.

  Nothing.

  Maybe you should go down there. Just to make sure.

  He felt his mind make the accustomed shift—a familiar dread he had believed somewhat vanquished, even without his meds—now accelerating with paranoid speculations.

  Nope. There’s nothing down there but Lyle’s boat.

  His heart beat faster, racing to catch his thoughts.

  You’re so close, only a day away. Better check.

  His head grew light, the ground beneath him tilting.

  They could be coming now, an army of them.

  He raised his hands to his face, relishing the pressure of his palms on his eyes and focusing on the swirling electric motes beneath the lids.

  This is a panic attack.

  He had never had one before, but felt confident in his diagnosis. When his OCD had surfaced years ago, his doctor had first prescribed an anti-anxiety medication, to stop the obsessive thoughts in order for him to sleep.

  Klonopin.

  It had been a miracle drug, wiping his mind clean like sand in the tide. He had been able to sleep again immediately. After a few weeks of restful sleep, he graduated down to Zoloft. Of course now, he had neither.

  But I have something else.

  He went to the camper, unlocked it and went inside. Above the sink was a small cabinet with several pint-sized bottles of different liquors. He wasn’t a hard drinker—beer and wine having been his go-to—but thought they might come in handy for medicinal purposes, or perhaps negotiating trade.

  He screwed the cap off of some Jack Daniels and sipped. He winced at the taste, the hot liquid assaulting his dormant taste buds and burning his throat as he swallowed. Before he could change his mind, he took a larger swig and re-capped, placing it back in the cabinet. He grabbed a bottle of water and sat down on some boxes, taking a big gulp and swishing it around in his mouth.

  Wow. When’s the last time you did that? High School?

  The warmth from the liquor spread through his body. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples, assisting the whiskey in a quest for composure. His mind began to slow, switching gears almost reflexively. His thoughts returned from scattered and fretful defense to a more stable and meditative offense.

  He opened his eyes.

  No wonder people become alcoholics.

  He studied his surroundings. Everything was neat, the camper packed tightly from his efforts that morning—but with some finagling, he was certain he could squeeze a little more room by unpacking some of the bulkier boxes and shifting items around, filling every nook and cranny. He couldn’t accommodate the dogs’ cumbersome kennels, but he could certainly make room for something far more important: gas.

  This worrisome ball had been bouncing around his brain for most of the afternoon. He had emptied almost four of the 5-gallon containers when filling up the camper. It seemed foolhardy and wasteful to leave those containers behind, empty, when Lyle’s boat was sitting down in the cove with practically a full tank. Granted, he already had six full containers aboard the camper—but in a savage and unpredictable environment, where electric pumps no longer worked and stops to siphon gas could jeopardize everything, wouldn’t fifty gallons of gas be better than thirty?

  He thought again about how if he had done things the tiniest bit differently at Lyle’s the entire operation would have run a whole lot smoother.

  Timing.

  You’re not leaving until tomorrow morning. Everything is still quiet here. How long would it take to go down there and siphon four containers of gas?

  Not long at all. Half hour? Forty-five minutes? And he still had the better part of five hours of daylight.

  So the answer was yes, fifty gallons of gas was better than thirty. It was that simple.

  Making room for the four additional containers was quick. Will took another drink from the bottle of Jack Daniels and admired his handy work.

  Good. That’s much better.

  He locked the camper—but not before taking a fourth and final swig of the liquor—and headed toward the side yard. He hadn’t been in this section of the yard in months as part of it went close to the street with only the chain-link and partial woods obscuring.

  “That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold,” he whispered.

  Is that what I am, Lady Macbeth? Making the rounds again. Crazy? Haunted?

  He stepped around the fire pit past the two mounds where he had buried the bearded Brad and the thing from the lake.

  Washing imaginary blood from her hands—insane from murderous treachery.

  He reached the fence, letting his elbows rest on the top. Through the foliage he could see the street—the same view from his office window—only closer and with more detail. He drank from his bottle of water and observed. Quiet. Not a single creature in sight. Hank and Betsy’s home stood there, no longer stirring apprehension—his recent brush with death overshadowing that virginal venture. Beyond the broken bay window Betsy lay silent in the basement—a house no longer haunted.

  He turned away from the fence and looked up at his office window. The girl was there—Lisa. She had been watching him. Was she concerned for him? Should she be? He lifted his hand to her and she returned the wave, tentatively.

  He strolled back across the grass, this time heading toward the front. The chain-link became vinyl. He passed the root that had snagged Brad’s torn body—the dirt still dark with his blood—and arrived at the gate leading to the front pathway.

  The fence was too high for him to see over, so he listened, putting his ear to the façade of mildewed panels leaning slightly at his touch. Quiet. He opened the gate and passed through.

  The streets here were also empty.

  —Haven’t you heard? There’s a huge BBQ at Lyle’s. Everyone’s there. BYOB—

  He went left, to the front walkway where Brad had died, briefly studying the white painted windows that had led the man to his demise.

  OK, white may have been the wrong color, but jet black would have been just as revealing. It should be a shady earth tone, charcoal maybe.

  He sat on his front porch steps and looked across the street at Katie’s—the few remaining bodies, the abandoned vehicles, the open door… What was it about that open door that bothered him? A reminder, he supposed, that he had killed her.

  Not true…

  But it was. He wasn’t responsible for the actions of the bikers, or the zombies, but he had pressed the button on that key fob and put things in motion, leading to the death of not only Katie, but that boy, Brad, and the rest of his gang.

  Death—death in a world where the dead rule, perversely knighted by the act of dying, where the ultimate killing blow is now deemed an errand of mercy.

  He decided that he would not let him
self descend the corridors with Lady Macbeth. No. He would keep his bloody hands close to his heart and move on. Instead of agonizing over these deaths, he would honor them by living on, strengthening himself. Quite simply, he would own it. And in this new world, this place few would know, he would survive and protect his own.

  He spoke quietly the words he was desperate to hear:

  “I am a killer. I’ve murdered people and I’ve slain monsters. And I will kill again if I have to. My name is Will and woe unto those that fuck with me or my family.”

  He stood, a dense calm enveloping him, far more comforting than the liquor in his belly. Brian was right, he had let go of Frank long ago; it had been himself that he was haunted by.

  “Let’s go get some gas.”

  He explained to Lisa what he intended to do. She was leery, not saying anything, but indicating with her actions—closing her book, gently patting Rocko, not making eye contact…

  “You can take the dogs outside again. Everything’s quiet. I’ll be less than five minutes away. Three if I pick up the pace.”

  This generated a mild response. It wasn’t often that you could enjoy being outside. She looked at him as if he were teasing her. “Really?”

  “Really. Why don’t you take your book and find some shade under a tree out there. The dogs love soaking up the sun and that’s rare these days.”

  She looked to Rocko and Lola who were now paying very close attention, staring at her with fine-tuned, expressive manipulation.

  She gathered her book and blanket.

  He left them in the backyard, making sure they were as far away from the street-side of the fence as possible. With some consideration, he also left her a gun—hiding it beneath the pine straw near, after instructing her about the safety switch and how to use it.